


Our Norwegian Holiday

by mightymads



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Domesticity, Established Relationship, Fluff, Light Angst, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, Schmoop, set in 1884
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 05:15:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21818017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightymads/pseuds/mightymads
Summary: Written for the Watson’s Woes community on DW. A cabin-in-the-woods story (yay the common trope), in which Christmas presents are exchanged (albeit weird ones), Watson has an accident while skiing, and then his leg hurts on New Year’s Eve (that covers the woes part), but eventually everything works out.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 22
Kudos: 73
Collections: Watson's Woes WAdvent 2019





	Our Norwegian Holiday

**Author's Note:**

> My heartfelt thanks to the awesome **Recently Folded** for betaing!

In late 1884 I successfully concluded a case which for the first time in my career had involved a royal family. The generous reward from the reigning family of Holland was enough to take a holiday, so Watson and I went to Norway for a week, intending to celebrate Christmas and the New Year there.

I had long wished to observe the northern lights, having studied the phenomenon extensively in the literature. Watson’s vivid tales only stimulated my curiosity. He is a man of the world, my Watson. Besides travelling to India and Afghanistan during his military service, he journeyed to the Arctic aboard a whaler as ship’s surgeon at the tender age of twenty. Whereas I, before my practice grew international in scope, hadn’t ventured abroad except France.

We rented a cottage in a small village near the city of Tromsø so that we could enjoy each other’s company in privacy. It was an exquisite pleasure to see John flushed during our rambles in the frosty air, his eyes sparkling, and his face alight with admiration of snow-laden mountains. And since it was the time of the polar night, we could stay in bed for as long as we wished. We spent Christmas Day exactly in that fashion.

Neither of us had bothered buying gifts for each other beforehand, so we relied upon the assortment of goods Tromsø had to offer. I presented John with a particularly garish jumper in the style of a Norwegian fisherman. Wearing it, he easily compensated for the lack of a Christmas tree in our cottage. 

His gift to me was also a knitted article of clothing and rather colourful too. He grinned like a mischievous boy while I was removing the wrapping. 

“My blushes! Where on earth did you obtain this?” I asked, staring at some sort of a mitten designed for intimate parts of male anatomy.

“Deduce?” John shrugged his shoulders.

“Must be the curiosity shop near the city market,” I muttered and saw by his contented expression that my conjecture was correct. “I’m afraid to ask how this garment is even called.”

“Willy warmer,” he supplied innocently. “Won’t you try it on?”

I scowled at him, but he knew me too well, sharing my love of all that is bizarre and outside convention. It will suffice to say that I did wear the thing. And then we would get carried away to the extent that only a solitary country house—certainly not a London flat—could allow.

As for the northern lights, we still had little luck viewing them, but I wasn’t really concerned. With no artificial illumination, it was almost always pitch dark, only snow reflecting the silvery light of the moon. Arm in arm John and I would admire the stars in all their glory: such sky was never to be seen in the city.

During the brief twilight hours we learned to ski. For some reason, despite his previous experience, John had more difficulties mastering the skill than I. It incited his competitive, sporting streak, and sometimes he pushed himself too hard. One day we found ourselves at the top of a steep hill, and I, in my presumptuousness, decided to take the shortest and fastest route down, even though there was a safer if slower way to descend.

It was a thrilling ride which stirred my blood, with the wind in my face and tremendous speed. In a blink of an eye I was already at the foot of the hill, and the elation from it was better than any drug could produce. In my excitement I realised too late that John was about to follow me. Words of warning died on my lips as he set off along the precipitous slope. I watched him, my heart pounding. At first it seemed to be fine, and he was in control of the direction he was going, but then suddenly he lost his balance and tumbled down in a heap, losing his ski poles and breaking his skis. Horrified, I didn’t want to believe it was happening. There was nothing I could do to help. 

It felt like an eternity as he rolled, tumbled, and flailed the stubs of his skis all the way to the foot of the hill. At last he came to a halt several yards away from me. I rushed to his motionless figure and fell on my knees beside him. He groaned.

“My God, John, say something!” I implored, wiping the snow off his face.

He blinked, moved his limbs carefully, and started to sit up.

“Have you hurt anything?” I asked in a trembling voice.

“Surprisingly, nothing,” he replied in disbelief. “Except for my pride, that is.”

To my utmost relief, it turned out to be true. Upon our return to the cottage, our thorough examination confirmed that apart from several bruises he was safe and sound. 

“Forgive me,” I said, pressing him to myself. “It was all my fault.”

“Nonsense,” he said soothingly. “I have my own head on my shoulders and should have known better.”

John Watson is a stubborn man. He didn’t abandon skiing and continued exercising the following days until we skied equally well. At my insistence we did not repeat that dangerous feat, however.

Everything was all right until, on New Year’s Eve after a ski outing, John’s old leg wound reminded of itself. By the evening poor John was miserable, so strong was the pain, and yet he took only a glass of brandy and water to alleviate it. He refused vehemently an injection of morphine suggested by his colleague, the village doctor. I felt a pang of conscience at that. John was set against morphine because of me, preferring not to remind me and not to tempt me. 

After dinner, John sat the whole evening by the fire, ensconced in an armchair, with his leg propped on the cushions. Lacking as I did my violin, I entertained him as best I could with random conversation and tales of my early cases. That seemed to distract him from the pain somewhat, and when he fell asleep, I carried him to bed.

The next day wasn’t any better. John suffered just the same; he barely moved about the house unless it was necessary. Usually light on his feet, John limped like he used to shortly after his return from Afghanistan and on very bad days still. It affected his mood, as one might expect, although he tried to stay cheerful.

“Are you sure you didn’t damage your  _ tendo Achillis _ again during the fall?” I asked gently.

“Quite sure.” He nodded. “The weather must be changing drastically. As a rule, my leg is sensitive to it, but rarely to such a degree.”

“Maybe we should leave before the weather worsens, John? Let’s go back home or to a warm place on the Continent—Italy, Greece, whatever.”

“But you still haven’t seen the northern lights.”

“It doesn’t matter,” I said, with some exasperation.

“We came here for it,” he insisted. “What if bad weather overtakes us while we are travelling? Being stuck on the train is hardly better than being here.”

“Fair enough,” I conceded reluctantly.

Indeed, John’s reasoning proved to be correct: by afternoon a severe snowstorm broke out. The wind was howling and whistling, violent incessant gusts crushing against the sturdy walls of our little cottage, and it was impossible to see anything through the window except the white swirling veil. On the bright side, John’s old wound stopped aching now that the weather had changed. Our cottage was warm, and we had enough food and coal to last us for days, so we quite enjoyed our seclusion. It was the very definition of having a rest: we ate, slept, talked, and enjoyed each other in all ways. There wasn’t much else to do.

On the 3d of January I awoke in the small hours as if by some compulsion. John was snoring quietly next to me, but apart from that the silence was complete: no sound of the wind could be heard from outside. I rose, put on my dressing-gown, and went to the window. The sky was clear, charcoal black, in stark contrast with the pristine whiteness of the fresh snow which covered everything so far as the eye could see. I admired the scenery for a few moments, and then, to my astonishment, green translucent glow flowed across the sky, shimmering like an enormous mantle. I gasped, ran to the bed, and started shaking John by the shoulder.

“Wake up, John, wake up!” I cried. “At last! The Aurora Borealis!”

Half-asleep, he leapt out of the bed. We threw on our clothes haphazardly and dashed to the door but had some difficulty getting outside as the door was snowed shut. With our combined efforts we pushed it open and made it to the porch. 

The sight that greeted us was gorgeous. The emerald blaze filled the sky, coiling and writhing, as if it were a living being, a wild and willful creature. White and purple flickers now flared up, now faded in most peculiar patterns. Was it merely the consequence of the planet’s magnetic properties and nothing else? There must be a grand design behind science, behind life itself, for it couldn’t be a mere serendipitous chance that I was allowed to share such an experience with this man who is most dear to me.

We watched the majestic spectacle with bated breath, spellbound. When it was over and we finally returned into the warmth of our cottage, we settled back down to sleep, happy as children.

In the morning we decided that it was time to return to civilization. There was no way to reach Tromsø after the recent snowstorm except by dog sled, so we had a most exhilarating trip with friendly furry companions. Our plan was to extend our holiday for a few more days, celebrate my birthday in Tromsø, and then head back to London. However, in the hotel whose address we had left to Scotland Yard for communication we found out that we had to depart immediately. Gregson’s wire was awaiting us: we were needed urgently for a new and tangled case. 

It was the best possible birthday gift from the Metropolitan police. As for a gift from my Watson, considering his pawky humour and peculiar taste, I was rather intrigued to see what he would give me.


End file.
